Page 8 of Mr Darcy’s Lakeside Romance

The universe seemed to grind to a halt. They stood still, separated by twenty feet of grass and a gorge of mortifying history. The silence stretched until it hummed with tension.

Elizabeth’s mind raced, attempting to formulate a plan of escape, a cohesive sentence, or even a simple, dignified curtsy. Nothing functioned. Her brain was devoid of sensible thought. She was trespassing on his private home, catching the formidable master of Pemberley skipping stones like a delinquent schoolboy without his formal neckwear.

Mr Darcy moved first. He took a hesitant step forward, his hands dropping to his sides. The haughty mask he usually wore had vanished, replaced by an expression of vulnerability. His cheeks were flushed—whether from exertion or mortification, Elizabeth could not deduce.

He executed a bow, graceful despite his dishevelled attire.

Elizabeth panicked. She dropped into a curtsy and her knee struck the ground. She wobbled dangerously, throwing her arms out to steady herself, nearly dropping her parasol.

She scrambled upright, her face burning with the heat of a thousand suns.

“Mr Darcy.” Her voice emerged as a pathetic squeak. She cleared her throat. “Mr Darcy. I—I am astonished to find you here. We were informed—that is, the village was under the distinct impression—that you were in London.”

Mr Darcy stared at her, tracing the embarrassed flush on her cheeks. He swallowed hard. “Miss Elizabeth. I—yes. I departed London three days ago. The city grew... intolerable.”

“We did not mean to intrude, sir.” Elizabeth took another step backward. “My aunt and uncle—Mr and Mrs Gardiner—they wished to view the house. We were assured by the housekeeper’s friend in Lambton that the family was absent. We would never have presumed to trespass on your privacy had we known you were in residence. I shall depart.”

She turned, prepared to bolt into the rhododendrons and run all the way back to Hertfordshire if necessary.

“No!”

The word tore from Mr Darcy’s throat with surprising violence. He closed the distance between them with long strides, stopping just shy of impropriety.

“Please, Miss Elizabeth, do not leave on my account.” His voice was low, raspy, and lacking its usual stiff drawl. He gestured awkwardly towards the sweeping landscape. “You are not trespassing. You are... welcome here. I am surprised to find you in Derbyshire. Are you well? Your family at Longbourn—they are in good health?”

Elizabeth stared at him, bewildered by the polite, almost gentle inquiry. Where was the haughty disdain? Where was the icy contempt she had expected to receive? He looked at her as if she were a vision conjured from his imagination, a phantom he feared might vanish if he spoke too harshly.

“They are well, sir.” She gripped her parasol like a shield. “I am travelling with my aunt and uncle. My uncle is a merchant in London, Cheapside, but he has business in the north. We are lodged at Lambton.”

She waited for the sneer to appear at the mention of her relations in trade. She braced herself for the cutting insult regarding Cheapside.

Instead, Mr Darcy’s expression softened into genuine pleasure. “Lambton. A charming village. I know it well.” He glanced down at his ruined, mud-splattered boots and his open collar, a fresh wave of colour climbing his neck. “You must forgive my appearance, Miss Elizabeth. I had not anticipated receiving guests. I was... attempting to find some quiet.”

Before Elizabeth could formulate a response to this baffling display of humility, footsteps sounded behind her on the grassy path.

“Lizzy! There you are, child!”

Uncle Edward emerged from the thicket, Aunt Madeline leaning on his arm. They both halted abruptly, their eyes widening at the sight of the tall, dishevelled gentleman standing too close to their niece.

Elizabeth’s stomach executed a freefall. The collision of her two worlds was now unavoidable. She had to introduce her beloved uncle in trade to the proudest man in the kingdom.

She took a fortifying breath, stepping to the side to create a respectable distance between herself and Mr Darcy. “Aunt Madeline, Uncle Edward. Please allow me to introduce Mr Fitzwilliam Darcy, the master of Pemberley. Mr Darcy, these are my relatives, Mr and Mrs Edward Gardiner.”

Mr Darcy executed another flawless, respectful bow.

“Mr Gardiner. Mrs Gardiner. It is an honour to welcome you to Pemberley.”

Uncle Edward blinked, recovering his jovial composure. He returned the bow with a cheerful nod. “The honour is ours, sir. We were told you were in London, or we never would have presumed to arrive at your door uninvited. We wished to admire your grounds. My wife recalls them fondly from her youth.”

Mr Darcy turned his attention on Aunt Madeline, offering a warm smile. “You are acquainted with this part of Derbyshire, madam?”

“I was raised in Lambton, sir,” Aunt Madeline replied, her voice smooth and unbothered by his consequence. “My father was a merchant who frequently supplied this house during the life of the late Lady Anne Darcy. She was a woman of extraordinary grace and kindness.”

Elizabeth prepared for the explosion. A tradesman’s daughter. She had handed him the weapon on a silver platter.

Mr Darcy’s smile deepened, a look of reverence crossing his features. “Thank you, Mrs Gardiner. That is the highest compliment you could possibly pay her memory.” He turned his focus back to Uncle Edward. “How did you find the northern roads, sir? Are they still treacherous, or have they improved since the spring?”

Elizabeth watched in stunned silence as Fitzwilliam Darcy—the man who had refused to dance with anyone outside his own party at the Meryton assembly—engaged her uncle in an earnest, polite conversation regarding carriage springs and the current state of the Matlock turnpike. He was attentive, engaged, and... charming.